""^^'niER GIRL 



/SV ^-^M^ ^.J(<^B^c^/U 






Class J.S 15:^1 
Rnnic . A 5. ^ 



Copiglit^J". 



903 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




SAMUEL E. Mcdonald. 



The Other Girl 



WITH SOI^E FURTHER STORIES AND POE^IS 



By SAMUEL E. McDONALD 



(ta 



NEW YORK 

BroadwaLV Publishing CompaLi\y 

1903 



a. A 






•• • • « » * 
• • ••<» ■«« • • 



Copyright, 1903, 

BY 

SAMUEL E. Mcdonald. 



All Rights Reserved. 









TO MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, 
PAUL NORCROSS, 

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS 

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Other Girl 1 

The Upper Current 5 

The Downfall of Woman 13 

The Little Clown 17 

Georgie's Letters from Philip 22 

The Will of Two 27 

Franz Schubert 32 

Franz Liszt 33 

The Fate of the Greedy Bear 35 

The Chieftain Sparrow 37 

His Photo 40 

The Uniting Power 43 

The Shortest Day 46 

The Love of Winnoa 51 

Jim 57 

The Foolery of Ping Pong 61 

Spring 66 

With the Spring 67 

The Hay-Maker 6S 

The Yachtsman ♦;0 

The Angler 70 

Caroline 71 

The Summer Girl 72 

Undecided 73 

The Man and the Photo 74 

The Wooer of the Lakes 75 

Grown Up 76 

When a Boy's Bad 77 

De Darky an' de Chicken 78 

De Man dat Toils 79 

Our Prayer 80 



THE OTHER GIRL. 



They were sitting on the steps of the college 
chapel. 

''Nothing," said Ethel, "could induce me to 
marry a fellow who has been born and bred in 
Chicago. They are never true. They are always 
(looking at him shyly) stubborn. I like these 
fresh young boys who live here in Beloit." 

''But, Ethel," said George, "do you think it just 
right to marry a stranger ?" 

"Of course it is," she replied. "Why should it 
not be all right? If a girl marries a man whom 
she has known most of her life, she soon gets 
tired of him, and he of her. I say, marry a person 
that will be something new to you. That is the 
course I will pursue." 

-Ethel " 

"Nothing can change my mind now that it is 



2 The Other Girl 

made up," she cried. ''I used to think our city 
boys were models ; but now I have changed my 
mind." 

''Why, Ethel" he said, "what is the matter with 
you to-night ? I have never seen you in this mood 
before." 

"There is not anything the matter with me," 
said she, indifferently. "Doesn't Florence Taylor 
dress beautifully?" 

He, just beginning to discern the cause of her 
actions : 

"She dresses well. Florence is a very pretty 
girl. She has such a charming personality." 

"Do you not find my statement true?" she 
asked. "Do you not like her better than any girl 
with whom you have kept company in Chicago ?" 

"Why— I don't know," he said. 

"Now, George, you know you do. Now, don't 



you?' 



'First question, no. I don't want to marry a 



I- " 



stranger 

"I do," said she, smoothing the folds in her 
dress. 

"I suppose," said he, "you want a fellow like 
Mike O'Brien, the junk buyer. He is a very nice 
fellow, and a stranger, also. We will have to 
watch you, or you will be eloping with him." 

"Oh, you horrid thing!" she cried. "I don't 



And Other Stones. 3 

like you a little. Now don't you never, never 
speak to me again." 

''Now don't you never. Little girl, you said 
that very nice. Don't get angry at a little joke. 
Come, now, let us not quarrel." 

"Don't you dare touch me," she cried, angrily. 
"I hate you." 

"Ethel," he pleaded, "do not get angry. That 
I love you with all my heart you well know. I 
was only joking. Please listen to what I have to 
say." 

"What !" she cried, huddling closer to him ; 
"you love me? I thought Florence was first in 
your heart." 

"Florence !" he exclaimed "what made you 
think I loved her?'' 

"Why, you were with her most of the time she 
was here. You never came to see me once." 

"But, little one, I love you, and you only. Will 
you not be the keeper of my tepee?" 

"I will," she said, seriously, "if you promise 
you will never go with that horrid Florence any 
more." 

"Would you have me shun my own cousin?" 
he asked, laughing. 

"Cousin !" she exclaimed. 

"My cousin," he repeated. "Now will you 
promise ? Will you be my wife ?" 



4 The Other Girl 

"George, George," she cried, resting her head 
upon his shoulder. ''How could I refuse you?" 

"But," said he, laughing, "I thought you were 
going to marry a stranger." 

"Indeed I am," said she, smiling. "Haven't 
you been acting rather strange for the past two 
weeks?" 



And Other Stones. 



THE UPPER CURRENT. 

The four hundred of Chicago had never had a 
better season. The dinners given by various 
members of society and the numerous balls had 
been exceptionally well attended. Never had 
things gone so smoothly as they were then go- 
ing. There had been a number of interesting 
weddings, and many fond mammas held high 
hopes of getting a good catch for her daughter. 
There was only one woman who seemed to be 
worried about her daughter's future, and that was 
Mrs. Bahm. 

The Bahms lived in a beautiful brownstone 
front mansion on Lake Shore drive. Mr. Bahm 
was a member of the Board of Trade, and was 
in need of a son-in-law with great aspirations and 
plenty of currency. So it was at the first of the 
season he had taken time after dinner to have a 
chat with his wife. The substance of the con- 
versation was that their daughter Clara, who had 
just made her debut, should marry rich. 

Clara was a beautiful girl of the Creole type. 



6 The Other Girl 

Her complexion was dark, her eyes black and 
flashing, and black coils of hair crowned her 
shapely little head. Her nature was as sweet as 
her appearance. She was the pet of the four 
hundred. The men would crowd around her and 
vainly plead for one more dance when her card 
had long since been filled. The greatest catch of 
the season and millionaire, Edward Drew, threw 
himself at her feet; but he was as gently rejected 
as many before him. Her mother begged and 
implored, and her father would not speak to her 
for many days, but all to no avail. 

"Oh, mamma !" she exclaimed one day, after 
her father had left her in a passion of rage, "1 
would like so much to please you and papa, but 
how can I marry a man I do not love? It would 
only make life miserable for both of us. My 
mamma, you have heard of the outcome of these 
loveless marriages. What is money compared 
with happiness? You would not be happy, 
mamma, to know that I was unhappy. I tried to 
explain to poor papa, but he would not listen." 

"Your papa," said Mrs. Bahm, "is becoming 
financially embarrassed. If something doesn't 
turn up we will have to leave our place in society. 
Now, my daughter, consider which is the better 
to do. Will it be better for you to marry Edward 
Drew's millions, or live in poverty?" 



And Other Stories. 7 

Clara buried her face in the pillows on the 
davenport and wept as though her heart would 
break. Her duty was to her parents, but she 
loved 

''Is it true," asked Mrs. Bahm, "that John 
Allen, that worthless reporter of the Tribune, has 
been paying you his attentions?" 

"I have met him at the many balls and dinners," 
said Clara, raising her head from the pillows. "I 
like him. He has great plans, which he 
means to carry out in the future. He aspires to 
be an author. All society is interested in him." 

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Bahm. "And he as- 
pires to be a poor devil author. Well does he de- 
serve to live on bread and water. It has long 
been a puzzle to me how he gained a foothold in 
society. Think of it, Clara, you have been en- 
couraging a man who cannot even afford a cab. 
I know not what foolish notions have entered 
your head, but think well before you act. Upon 
you depends our future." 

Mrs. Bahm swept from the room, leaving Clara 
to her own meditation. She wept not now. Stern 
duty stared her in the face. She ovv^ed everything 
to her parents, and she must help them out of 
their difficulty. But John — ah, she loved John ! 
Light-hearted, good-natured John, who had great 
aspirations, and that was all. She thought of 



8 The Other Girl 

how gently he had put her in the carriage the 
night of Mrs. Chandler's dinner party. He did 
not speak, but the love light in his eyes told the 
whole thing. It was the same sweet tale. He 
loved her. Dear, plain, good-natured John ! If 
he had only spoken that night; but now duty 
must come before love. 

It was with a heavy heart that Clara dressed 
for Mrs. Fields' fancy ball. She would meet both 
of them at the ball, and she knew which course 
she would pursue. In her mind she pictured each 
of them as she gave her answer. One was drunk 
with joy ; and the other looked far over her shoul- 
der into space. She could not weep ; the time for 
action was at hand. 

The ball room was crowded when Clara en- 
tered. There was the usual rush for her card, 
and among the first to reach her were John Allen 
and Edward Drew. When John did not care to 
dance, but led her to the conservatory, she un- 
derstood what was coming, and braced herself 
for it. 

"Clara," said John, as he seated her behind 
some palms, ''you doubtless know w^hat I have 
brought you here for. You have long since dis- 
covered that I love you. Dearest Clara, I haven't 
much to give you. I could not give you the home 
that you have always been used to ; but my sal- 



And Other Stories. 9 

ary has been increased. We can live modestly 
and be happy. Tell me, my sweet one, what is 
your answer?" 

The tears were flowing down Clara's cheeks 
and she wept as though her heart would break. 
The only man she had ever loved, and the man 
who was life to her was pleading for her answer. 
Her mouth was dry. The words she wished to 
say seemed to stick in her throat. 

"Answer me," pleaded John. "Answer me, 
dearest." 

"John," she said, at last, "I love you, but I can 
never be your wife. You are poor, John." The 
word poor, stung him like a whip wielded by a 
slave-master of the olden days. "I must marry 
money. You doubtless know that anything raised 
in clover craves clover. So it is with me, John," 
taking his head between her two hands. "John, 
don't look so heartbroken. I love you, John. 
My love will ever live for you." 

She kissed his pale lips and fled from the con- 
servatory. 

John sat as though he had been stricken of his 
senses. He did not move for a long time, and 
when at last he regained his senses with a jerk, 
he fled from the house. He did not seek the busy 
down-town office. He wished for solitude. Oh, 
to be alone ! He was sick with disappointment. 



lo The Other Girl 

He had been deceived in Clara. He had thought 
that she was above other girls ; but she told him 
that she would marry riches. He was poor. 
Those cruel words still rang in his ears. She 
could not leave the upper current and descend to 
his level. No, not for love. She had said that 
she loved him. Bah ! her love was false. 

There was quite a stir among the reporters a 
few mornings later when they learned that John 
Allen, the society reporter, had gone west to 
live on a ranch. He gave no reasons for his 
hasty leave, but bid the editor a sad-faced fare- 
well, and was gone. There were all kinds of ru- 
mors about his departure, but no one about the of- 
fice knew what the real trouble was. One report- 
er had found out that he had bought a ticket for 
Butte, Montana, but farther than that he could 
not h6 traced. 

In the meantime Clara had been having a miser- 
able time. She was aroused from her reverie 
by the announcement of Edward Drew. Drew 
had proposed and had been accepted. He had 
come to plan with her their wedding tour. They 
were to go to Europe. Under other circum- 
stances Clara would have clapped her hands 
with joy; but now she cared not for the things 
she had once longed for. Her heart lay like lead 
in her bosom and beat with a dull thud. Life 



And Other Stones. ii 

was dead within her. The sunshine had fled from 
her forever. 

As June, the wedding month drew near, Clara's 
dark beauty faded slowly away. She looked 
years older; and Drew became quite alarmed 
about her condition. He rejoiced that the wed- 
ding day was near at hand so that he might take 
his darling across the seas and bring the roses 
back into her cheeks. He knew not what her 
ails were, for he had been blind to everything, 
so wrapped up was he in his great love. 



John Allen sat alone in his rude hut of logs, 
A paper lay before him on the floor. He stared 
through the door at the landscape stretched out 
before him. He was dreaming. He had struck 
it rich, and his mine was worth thousands of dol- 
lars ; and yet what was all that to him ? It could 
not buy happiness. 

''She will be married to-morrow," he kept re- 
peating. "To-morrow, to-morrow. I love the 
little girl, but from what she said in the note I 
received the next day, the old man needed money. 
'Twas all in the game, and it was right for the 
little girl to help her father ; but I love her, I love 
her!" 

He buried his face in his hands and wept as 
though his heart would break. He did not hear 



12 The Other Girl 

the sound of horses' hoofs as they drew near his 
cabin. 

"John, John !" she cried, as she caught sight of 
him. 

"Clara !" he cried, springing up and folding 
her to his breast. 

"Dear John," she sobbed, "I could not live 
without you. We were to be married to-morrow, 
but I couldn't deceive him. I love you, John, and 
you only." 

The papers were full the next day of a great 
romance. Clara was married the next day, but 
to Mr. John Allen, Esq. 



And Other Stories. 13 



THE DOWNFALL OF WOMAN". 

It was a pretty little boarding house nestled 
among the green hills of dear old Vermont. It 
was so home-like and cozy. From afar you 
could stand and look at it; but not a man could 
you see. 

The large veranda was crowded with richly 
dressed women. Women played tennis upon 
the lawn. Women were pruning roses and trees 
in the garden; but there was not a man to be 
seen. 

What strange place was this? If you would 
notice the magazines you would see — stop ! Don't 
speak so harshly of them. No, your expression 
is wrong. This beautiful, quiet place is Miss 
Dean's retreat for maiden ladies — not a retreat 
for old maids, for women never grow old. 

Miss Howells was the leader of this band. At 
the beginning of the season she had been chosen 
their leader. To her they all looked up, and her 
word was about law. Her stories and incidents 
were listened to in breathless silence, and were 



14 The Other Girl 

loudly applauded. A good entertainer was she, 
and some said that she was rather inclined to be 
literary. She was medium height, fat, and had a 
happy disposition. In the extreme she was rather 
egotistic. Many chances had she to marry, but 
she always rejected them for obvious reasons, 
so she said. 

The tea bell rang and they crowded into the 
large, cool dining-room and sat down in little 
groups at the many little tables. The topic, as 
usual, was about man — wicked, cruel, heartless 
man. Hov/ they run hirn down ! Man, in their 
estimation, was no more than the mere worm 
that crawleth upon the earth. 

Miss Howells started to tell them some more of 
her experiences with the masculine gender. Oh, 
how she hated man ! This hatred was fierce and 
deep. All of her employees at home were women. 
No man would tread upon her premises unless 
it was absolutely necessary. She had just told 
them how near she was to fainting when she saw 
a man, when, she happened to look out of the 
window. A poor, forlorn looking tramp cam.e 
shambling up the dusty road. A little scream at 
first escaped her lips, then instead of fainting she 
sprang from her chair and pointed out the win- 
dow. 

"A man ! A man !" she cried. 



And Other Stories. 15 

"A man ! A man !" cried they all rushing out 
o£ the room and down the road toward the hun- 
gry tramp. 

The tramp stood aghast looking at the rushing, 
excited mob of females that were bearing down 
upon him. He stood as though rooted to the 
ground. He knew not whether he was to be 
hanged or torn into minute bits. 

The crowd of rushing, scrambling women 
rushed up to him like wild and infuriated beasts 
before a prairie fire. What sprinters they were ! 
No one would have imagined that these peaceful 
man-haters could get up so high a rate of speed. 

Miss Howells proved to be the best runner. 
She pounced upon the poor, luckless vagabond 
and showered him with kisses. After a time the 
rest of the maiden ladies came up and fell upon 
the poor tramp. 

As .soon as each had tasted of the forbidden 
fruit, the bum was hurried off toward the quiet 
hotel. He was pushed into a beautiful room, given 
water and clean towels, new underwear, and told 
to clean himself up and present himself in the 
parlor. 

Miss Howells found a new suit of clothes 
some place and these were thrown into the tramp's 
room. The bum was just finishing his meal, 
which had been brought up to him by ready hands 



i6 The Other Girl 

and smiling faces. When he had finished he 
donned his new suit, white shirt and collar and 
stepped out into the hall. To his surprise the 
hall w'as crowded with smiling faces. He lost 
his nerve. He could not stand it. 

"Look at der ugly muggs!" he exclaimed. 
''Humph, I can't stand dis." 

The ladies advanced toward him with out- 
stretched hands. A frightened look came into his 
eyes. He wavered for a moment, then in one 
wild bound he cleared the railing which sur- 
rounded the stairs, rushed through the hall and 
out the open door with the howling, infuriated 
mob following. 

Down the dusty road they ran. For a half mile 
he ran with them following. At last they gave 
up ; but the tramp did not stop until another half 
mile had been covered. 

He sat down upon a log by the wayside and 
heaved a sigh of relief. 

"Tank de debil !" he exclaimed. "It may ha' 
been worse." 

The poor maiden ladies could not look each 
other in the face; but tramped, ashamed, disap- 
pointed and weary, back to their boarding place. 



And Other Stories. 17 



THE LITTLE CLOWN. 

From the great circus tents flags of every na- 
tion were waving. It was a beautiful scene. It 
was especially beautiful to Wilford Cance, for 
this was the first circus he had ever seen. It 
was amazing to him how quickly the large tents 
were put up, and very amusing to see the great 
elephants roll the big circus wagons about. Oh, 
how he longed to attend the circus ! If he could 
only do some work so that he could gain his ad- 
mission ; but working for a circus he had heard 
was the hardest kind of labor. His grandma had 
just bought him a new suit of clothes and he did 
not want to ask her for the money, so he tried 
to be content. 

He perched upon the gate-post and watched 
with interest the forming of the parade. There 
were so many pretty wagons, and nearly every 
one of them was filled with animals. The ele- 
phants attracted him more than, anything, for 
upon their backs men and women were riding. 



i8 The Other Girl 

A man came out of one of the smaller tents 
leading a little mule which was hitched to such a 
wee, pretty little buggy. After he had led the 
mule a little distance from the tent, a little clown 
ran out and jumped into the buggy. He was 
such a cute little clown, and did such funny 
things. Wilford laughed with glee as he watched 
him. 

As the parade started down the street the band 
began to play. The little clown tried to make the 
mule dance to the music. He made such laugh- 
able faces and said such funny things that Wil- 
ford decided to follow him about. 

"Hello, boy," said the little clown to Wilford, 
as they were going back to the circus grounds. 
"Would you like to ride back to the circus 
grounds with me?" 

"I would like to so much," said Wilford, as 
he climbed in beside the little clown. "You are 
so funny I would like to be with you always. 
I would like very much to be a clown in a circus." 

The little clown's face sobered. For a time he 
looked silently at Wilford. 

"Tell me," said he at last, "why would you like 
to be a clown ?" 

"Because," said Wilford, looking at him ad- 
miringly, "you have so much fun and travel every 
place." 



And Other Stories. 19 

*'Fun !" exclaimed the little clown. "I don't 
have much fun. I have to work all the time ! be- 
sides I get awful beatings when I don't act well." 

"Do they whip you?" asked Wilford. "Does 
your mamma whip you hard?" 

"Mamma !" said the little clown, knocking a 
tear from his beautifully painted face. "I haven't 
any mamma. She died last year when I was 
ten. Now that I am all alone every one picks 
on me and kicks me about. My mamma was 
very kind to me, and she was so beautiful." 

Wilford now looked at the little clown with 
eyes of pity. It was awful to have no mamma or 
nice grandma, and besides the wicked circus men 
beat him. The poor little clov/n. 

They had now reached the circus ground and 
Wilford alighted from the buggy. The little 
clown invited him over after the performance 
and he promised to come. 

In the afternoon Wilford sat upon the gate- 
post and watched the people go to the circus. 
He longed to gO' and see the little clown act. 
Mr. Dun had promised to take him in the even- 
ing, but he could hardly wait. 

The band struck up a lively tune and Wilford 
knew that the circus had begun. Once when a 
man lifted the tent curtain, he saw a lady riding 
a horse around the ring. She was dressed beau- 



20 The Other Girl 

liful, and things upon her costume ghstened Hke 
diamonds. 

After a time the band ceased playing and the 
people laughed at something funny. Wilford 
did not know what was going on. He thought 
perhaps his little clown was making them laugh. 

The band began to play "Get Your Money's 
Worth." He saw the little clown driving the 
quaint little mule at full speed into the main 
tent. A man raised the tent curtain and he saw 
the little clown driving around the big ring and 
doing all sorts of funny things. The man 
dropped the curtain and he could see no more. 

Faster and faster the band played, and louder 
the people laughed. From above this uproar 
there came a shrill scream, then a terrible crash 
as though something was being rent asunder. 
Immediately the band ceased playing, and a hum 
of excited voices reached Wilford's ears. What 
had happened he could only guess. He jumped 
from the gate-post and hurried toward some 
men who were bringing a little bleeding body 
from the tent. It was his little clown. The mule 
had run away and crashed into one of the big 
center poles. 

Tenderly the paint was washed from his face 
and the doctor examined him. Nearly every rib 
in his body was broken. He could not live. 



And Other Stories. 21 

Wilford knelt down by him and wept as though 
his heart would break. After a time the little 
clown opened his eyes. 

"You here?" he said faintly to Wilford. "I 
can't meet you after the performance. I'm go- 
ing to meet mamma, by dear, darling mamma. 
Oh, I am so glad I am going to her. You have 
been so good to me. But listen, I hear dear God 
bidding me come. I must go. I — am — so — ■ 
happy. Good-by — good-by." 

Peacefully the little clown closed his eyes in 
death. The circus men could beat him no more. 
He had gone to God and his angel mamma. 

They buried him in the village cemetery. Of- 
ten Wilford goes with flowers and sits by the 
grave and wonders if the little clown is making 
people happy in heaven by his funny pranks. 



2 2 The Other Girl 



GEORGIE'S LETTERS FROM PHILIP. 

No. I. 

Bedford, — . 
My Dearest Loving Georgie : 

I received your dear, loving letter just three 
minutes ago. How happy I was to receive those 
few little lines from my dearest little love. Oh, 
Georgie, how happy we shall be here when we 
are married and live in a beautiful cottage by the 
sea. I feel so lonesome without you, Georgie. 

I like my uncle very much. He is a very fleshy 
man, about the age of fifty. His hair is gray, his 
eyes are blue. As I look at him I cannot but 
feel sorry for him. His face looks so care- 
worn. His business is very good. I cannot see 
what makes him so sad. He pays me one hun- 
dred dollars a month for my services here. After 
a time he says that he is going to put me in as 
his junior partner. Ah, then the money we will 
have to be happy on ! 

Dear Georgie, don't forget me. If I should 



And Other Stories. 23 

not hear from you to-morrow morning, in my 
brain I would feel like putting a bullet. Uncle 
is calling me, and I must stop for this time. 
Hoping to hear from you by return mail, I am 
Ever your loving Philip. 

No. 2. 

Bedford, — . 
My Dearest Loving Georgie : 

I went to my landlady this morning after the 
mail. You know not how I felt when there was 
no letter from the dearest little girl on earth — 
you, my love. It seemed as though all the world 
was against me, and I was left deserted. 

Georgie, my love, do not desert me. You know 
how dearly I love you. If it was not for you, 
darling, I would not be here. I am working for 
you and you only, my own dearest love. 

Uncle seems to be growing worse. He wants 
me to come in to-morrow as his partner in busi- 
ness. The dear old man seems to think that I 
am his only friend on earth. How I sympathize 
with him! I love him as I would my own father, 
were he living. 

Well, little darling, I must close for this time. 
Hoping to hear from you to-morrow, I remain 
Yours with a thousand kisses, 

Philip. 



24 The Other Girl 

No. 3. 

Bedford, — . 
Dear Georgie: 

Why don't you write, dear? I have every 
morning got up early (9 o'clock) to meet the post- 
man. I also run to the post-office every time a 
train comes from your way, only to be disap- 
pointed. Darling, do not treat me this way. It 
is breaking my heart. 

I heard one of the clerks say this morning that 
I looked nearly as bad as the old man — he mean- 
ing uncle. Darling, what is it? Have I hurt 
your feelings in any way? I have always tried 
to please you ; and I love you with all my heart. 
Georgie, please don't leave me this way without 
an explanation. What have I done, little sweet- 
heart ? Hoping that I will receive an explanation 
soon, I am Your aggrieved Philip. 

No. 4. 

Bedford — . 
Dearest Georgie: 

Two weeks have passed since I last wrote you. 
Georgie, you are breaking my heart by this si- 
lence. Please, Georgie, write me this once and 
tell me how I have injured you. If you will 
only write me this once, I will never bother you 



And Other Stories. 25 

again — if it is your wish. Answer me, dearest, 
answer me. This silence is worse than death. 

Is there another fellow in the case? 

Hoping, dear one, that you will listen to this 
last plea, I am Your ardent lover, 

Philip. 

No. 5. 

Bedford — . 
My Dearest Loving Georgie: 

Your letter was just received. Georgie, my 
own, my darling, you know not how happy you 
have m.ade me. Little one, I am so glad it was 
this way ; but just as sorry to know that you have 
been sick. Of course, I am selfish like the rest 
of the world. Little sweetheart, you know not 
how full my heart is to-night. I am so happy. 
You ask me to forgive you. Dear Georgie, I 
have nothing to forgive. I hate myself for ever 
thinking that you were not true to me. Darling, I 
am coming to see you next week. Can we not 
then set the date of our wedding? 

Dear uncle passed away last evening. His will 
was read yesterday. To me he left everything. 
The dear old man I believe is in a more beauti- 
ful palace and is happier than any earthly being. 

Little rosebud, perhaps they were right in not 
giving you my letters while you were sick. Afy- 



26 The Other Girl 

how, I am satisfied that your love still lives 
for me. I must close for this time. With lots 
of love and a thousand kisses, I remain 

Your husband to be, Philip Pierce. 

No. 6. 

Bedford, — . 
Dearest Little Sweetheart : 

I cannot possibly wait until next week to see 
you. I expect at the time I am writing this let- 
ter, you are just reading mine of the same date. 
I will come to-morrow on the evening train. Do 
not try to meet me at the depot. You are not 
strong enough for that. Oh, Georgie, I can hard- 
ly wait until then to see you. Kisses to you, my 
darling. And now I must close, for I do not 
want to weary you by this correspondence. 
Your dear, loving Philip. 



And Other Stories. 27 



THE WILL OF TWO. 

"She will make you a good wife," said my 
father, 

"But if we do not love each other?" I pro- 
tested. 

"You cannot but help love her," said my father. 

"Has she red hair?" I asked. 

"Certainly not," said he, frowning. 

"Have you spoken to her of this matter?" I 
again asked. 

"You're an idiot!" he exclaimed, turning his 
back upon me. 

"It's beautiful here by the lake," said I, chang- 
ing the subject. 

No answer. 

"Well," said I, "I guess I will take a little spin 
on my wheel." 

"See that you think well of this matter," said 
father, as I entered the house. 

"Russel," said my sister Clara, coming up to 
me as I entered the drawing room, "have you 
seen her?" 

"Who?" said I, gruffly. 



28 The Other Girl 

"Why, Fannie. Who else could it be?" 

**Father said it must be Jennie," said T, turn- 
ing away. 

I mounted my wheel and rode some distance 
along the lake, when I was startled most out of 
my boots. 

"Help! Help!" cried a female voice. 

I fell off my wheel and ran down the steep in- 
cline to the water's edge. To my surprise I found 
a beautiful young lady of medium height, 
brown, lustrous eyes, and beautiful black hair. 
She was perched upon a large boulder. At the 
foot of the boulder sat a large turtle, stretching 
his neck and snapping at imaginary foes. The 
young lady looked very much frightened until 
she saw me. 

"Do not be afraid," I cried, "I will help you." 

Her face wreathed with pretty smiles as she 
watched m^y oncoming steps. Picking up a club 
I proceeded to knock that turtle insensible. I 
think I did the job well. 

"May I help you down ?" I asked, holding my 
hands up to her. 

"If you please, sir," said she, faintly. 

I placed my arm around her waist and lifted 
her down. 

"I was so frightened," she said, as her little 
head rested upon my shoulder. 



And Other Stones. 29 

I sat down upon a nearby log and placed her 
beside me. Her head still rested upon my shoul- 
der; my arm still encircled her waist. After a 
time she felt better and straightened up. 

"I thank you ever so much," she said, rising 
from her seat and looking down into my eyes. 
^'Will you wait until I get my camera? It is at 
the foot of that rock." 

"Let me get it for you," I cried, jumping from 
my seat. I was too slow, and the little minx 
had picked it up before I could assist her. I was 
becoming very much in love with her now. She 
was so graceful and pretty. 

"You were in quite a bad fix," said I. "How 
did it happen?" 

She laughed. What a beautiful, silvery laugh. 

"I was in quite bad circumstances," said she 
sweetly. "I was going to photograph that old 
hull of a ship when I turned and saw that hor- 
rid thing coming at me." 

I smiled and looked at the boulder. 

"I was so frightened," she went on. "How I 
did it I do not know ; but the next thing I knew 
I was on top of that boulder screaming as though 
I was mad." 

She looked at me. We both laughed. 

We sat down on the log and began talking. 
Before I knew it, I was telling her my life's story 



30 The Other Girl 

and my latest mishap. I told her how I had just 
graduated, and come home from college to find 
my father had a wife picked out for me. 

"Who has your father chosen?" she asked, in 
a low, tremulous voice. 

''Some girl," said I, "by the name of Jennie 
Robinson. I have always done as father wishes." 

"But she does not love you," she cried. 

"I do not blame her," said I ; "but how do you 
know she does not?" 

"Because," she said, smiling faintly. "Will 
you promise not to tell?" 

Of course I promised. 

"She and my brother are engaged," said she, 
looking at me curiously. 

I heaved a great sigh of relief. 

"Now you are out of it," said she, sadly. "I 
am in the same condition you were in. My papa 
wants me to marry a horrid old duke. I cannot 
see my way out of it as well as you." 

"There is only one way," said I, forgetting my- 
self. When I turned to look at her she was study- 
ing my face. 

"It's just terrible," she went on. "Our father? 
seem to think we have no feelings." 

Then she burst into tears. 

"Do not cry," said I, jumping up and getting 
excited. I hugged her to my bosom, my arm hav- 



And Other Stones. 31 

ing involuntarily encircled her waist. "Our 
fathers be " 

Before I could get the naughty word out her 
little hand had covered my mouth. 

"My darling," said I, "there is only one way out 
of this dilemma. Will you, little one, be my 
wife?" 

"How can I be your wife when we do not even 
know each other?" said she, laughing. 

"I do know you, Fannie Sage. I have always 
felt acquainted with you, since Clara sent me your 
photograph six months ago." 

"Russel Howard," she said, "I knew you as 
soon as I saw you. Clara gave me your photo 
before Christmas. I would have known you 
among an hundred men." 

"Bless dear Clara," said I. "This is rather 
hasty, my dear r but I have started it. Will you 
cast your lot with mine ?" 

"But our fathers?" she faintly pleaded. 

"Darling," said I, "is it your father or me?" 

She smiled as she looked up into my face. 
The answer was lost in a long, sweet kiss. 



32 The Other Girl 



FRAXZ SCHUBERT. 

Fraxz Peter Schubert was born at Vienna, 
January 31, 1797. He was a composer of both 
vocal and instrumental music. To his father he 
was indebted for his general education. In 1808 
the beauty of his voice attracted much attention. 
While in the choir of the imperial chapel he was 
taught to play the violin. 

In 1843 Schubert lost his voice. This was a 
great blow tc him, but it did not dampen his zeal 
to compose music. During the year of 181 5, he 
composed five operas, one hundred and thirty- 
seven songs and many short compositions. He 
wrote whenever he was inspired, and turned out 
much good music. 

Schubert, like all great geniuses, never lived 
to see the effect of his work. Xot one of his sym- 
phonies v.'on him any notoriety during his life. 
His fame came after death. He died November 
19, 1828. His "Ave ]Maria" and "Serenade" will 
live forever among the young musicians, while 
his symphonies will ever live am.ong the advanced 
students. 



And Other Stories. 33 



FRANZ LISZT. 

Franz Liszt, a Hungarian pianist, was born 
at Raiding, Hungary, October 22, 181 1. When 
he was six years old his father began giving him 
lessons on the piano-forte, and when he was nine 
years old he attracted so much attention that 
some noblemen sent him to Vienna for six years' 
study. Here he studied under Czerny and Sa- 
lieri. In 1823 he was refused admission in the 
Conservatoire on account of his being a for- 
eigner. He studied in Paris under Reicha and 
Paer. At this time he aroused much enthusiasm 
by his playing on the piano-forte. 

From 1839 to 1847 ^^ traveled from place to 
place giving concerts. From these concerts he 
elicited m.uch admiration and praise. He was 
appointed conductor of the Court Theatre at 
Weimar in 1848. 

Liszt now settled down to serious work, and 
wrote the piece which brought him fame and 
fortune. His greatest sacred pieces were ''Faust," 
the ''Divine Comedia," "St. Elizabeth," the 



34 The Other Girl 

"Grand Mass," "Christus," and many other sa- 
cred works. 

Liszt was a kind and generous man. He was 
always ready to help the fallen one, and his in- 
fluence upon the younger musicians was very 
great. He died at Bayreuth, October 31, 1886. 



And Other Stories. 35 



THE FATE OF THE GREEDY BEAR. 

A BEAR one day met a deer in the woods which 
had been wounded by hunters. The poor deer, 
when it saw the bear coming, tried so hard to 
get away; but it was too badly wounded to run. 

"Have mercy, have mercy!" cried the poor 
deer. "Please, bear, spare my life this once." 

"Ha, ha, ha !" laughed the bear. *T could not 
show such a creature as you mercy. I am not 
hungry now, but I must eat you. If I would 
leave you here some one else would get you, and 
that would do my stomach no good. You are 
too sweet to leave for some one else. Indeed, 
pretty deer, I must eat you." 

And the greedy bear, although he was not 
hungry, pounced upon the poor deer and ate him 
up. He ate so much that he could hardly move. 
When he had finished he wended his way along 
the path in the woods, and becoming lazy, crept 
into a copse of underbrush which grew along the 
way With a grunt he lay down for a little 
nap. 



36 The Other Girl 

The bear had not been asleep very long when 
he was awakened by the report of a gun, and was 
stung by a bullet which had entered his thigh. 
As quick as possible he got to his feet and tried 
to get away. This was impossible, because the 
wounded thigh and the food which he had eaten 
made things against him. Naturally, he thought 
of the poor deer. He had spared it no mercy, 
and he knew these hunters who wei*e fast ap- 
proaching would spare him none. He realized 
that if he had not eaten the deer he would have 
had a chance to get away. As it was, the hunt- 
ers soon came up and killed him. 



And Other Stories. 37 



THE CHIEFTAIN SPARROW. 

A Parable of the Times. 

Two sparrows one day met in the forest. One 
was the chief of the sparrows; the other was a 
citizen. 

''How do you do," said Citizen sparrow, bow- 
ing stiffly. "I am pleased to meet you." 

"The same to you," said the Chieftain sparrow, 
in his gruff way. ''But pray tell me, why look 
you so downcast?" 

"What makes me look so downcast?" reiter- 
ated the Citizen sparrow. "Do you not know?" 

"Certainly not," said the Chieftain sparrow, 
"or I would not have asked you. With me I 
hope you are not displeased. I gave you the 
position you so long desired." 

"I am very glad I met you," said the Citizen 
sparrow. "I must, under the circumstances, de- 
cline your offer." 

"What means all this ?" asked the Chief in sur- 
prise. "I see not why you decline my offer. 



38 The Other Girl 

Five days ago you were anxious to get the posi- 
tion. If it is not asking too much of you, 1 
would hke an account of your actions/' 

*'I should not think you would ask me," 
saucily said the Citizen sparrow, throwing back 
his head, ''but if it is your wish I will tell you." 
"Very well," said the Chief. "Proceed." 
"Chief," said the Citizen sparrow, "we thought 
you were going to make us a good leader; but 
you have made a great mistake, a terrible mis- 
take. Very well you know how we people in 
the south forest hate the blackbird. He is our 
mortal enemy, and through him you have com- 
mitted an unpardonable mistake. You ought to 
have known better. You have spoiled your 
future career. You might have held your office 
for another term ; but you invited a blackbird to 
dine with you. He crossed the line into our 
midst. He not only ate dinner in the big tree, 
but was the first person to dine with you since 
you entered office. Can we people of the south 
forest stand this? He not only ate with you, 
but was allowed to give you advice. A black- 
bird give advice to the Chief of this great office, 
this grand forest ! Can you wonder I decline the 
office you offer me? I want nothing to do with 
any person wdio has any dealings with a cursed 
blackbird. You should not have done it." 



And Other Stories. 39 

It was very hard for the Chief to hold back 
his anger. When the Citizen had finished the 
Chief broke forth. 

"Very well, sir," said the Chief. "I will not 
miss your presence. There is one thing I want 
you to understand. I will not have you or any 
other person dictate to me. I will have you 
understand that I am running this forest, and 
will invite whoever I wish to the big tree to 
dine. That is not any of your business. It is 
my business — not the public's. If ever you come 
to me as you have to-day, you will leave faster 
than you came. Tell your people that I am run- 
ning this forest. I do not care if I am not 
elected another term. I am master while I am 
here. Do you understand?" 

When the Chief finished the Citizen tried to 
offer apologies ; but he was hushed by the thun- 
dering voice of the Chief, the Chief who would 
be Chief. Finally the Citizen, not able to stand 
it any longer, went twittering angrily away. 



40 The Other Girl 



HIS PHOTO. 

It was by accident they met. They used to 
be playmates when they were boy and girl to- 
gether; but he had left her then and went to 
travel with his uncle. He used to write often, 
but after a time the letters began to come far 
apart. Things kept on in this' way until at last 
the letters ceased coming altogether. It hurt 
her at first, but after a time even she forgot. 

She was down at the beach watching the 
waves as they washed the pebbles from place to 
place upon the sand. At Ann Arbor the waves 
do this in excellent style. Dreaming was she, 
not of the boy who had left her many years be- 
fore, but of an imaginative creature which had 
crept into her brain. Of these young dandies 
she was tired. She was so tired of it all. She 
craved for something new and original. She 
could love somebody. Now that she was free 
from the old walls of Vassar, where she had 
been shut up for three long years, her heart 
yearned for companionship. 



And Other Stories. 41 

As she was marking upon the sand, a shadow 
moved before her. Turning quickly she saw a 
handsome young man, about twenty-two years 
of age, looking down upon her. When he caught 
a glimpse of her face he started, then came for- 
\vard with a glad cry. 

"Gladys! Gladys!" he cried. '^Gladys, don't 
you know me?" He was surprised at her in- 
creased beauty. 

She was upon her feet now and came toward 
him with outstretched hands. A glad look 
brightened her eyes, while her face was flushed 
with excitement. 

"Fred !" she cried, her whole soul in her voice. 
"Fred, where have you been these long years? 
I — I had almost forgotten you. Why did you 
stop writing? I — a. — mamma missed your let- 
ters eo much. In fact, we all missed them. 
They were so interesting." 

"My time was so much taken up, Gladys," he 
said, still holding her hands. "I could not find 
time to write. When a fellow is traveling, you 
know, there is so much to see." 

"Yes," said she. "So many pretty women. 
The foreigners are so very^ charming." 

"The women did not bother me, little girl," 
said he. "I was lonesome. I looked, but T 
could not find an equal to her face. There is no 



42 The Other Girl 

one like her in the wide world. I was only a 
boy then; but I loved. My love is stronger now, 
Gladys." 

''Here is his photo, Fred," said Gladys. "The 
wedding is next week." 

She handed him the photograph of a nice look- 
ing young man. Fred staggered, as though he 
had been struck a terrible blow. 

"Gladys," he cried. 'T loved you. I love you 
still. I came all the way from Italy for you. 
But now " 

"That photograph," said Gladys, a smile light- 
ing up her face, "is my sister's husband to be." 



And Other Stories. 43 



THE UNITING POWER. 

They sat calmly discussing the matter. She 
with white, drawn face ; he with dark, lowering 
brows. She seemed to care for nothing in the 
world; he was despondent. Two years they had 
been married. A baby girl had been born to 
them, and it was such a sweet child. Both loved 
it with all their hearts. 

The baby died after living three short months. 
It almost broke both their hearts, but they would 
not seek consolation in one another. They were 
husband and wife, and yet their lives seemed so 
far apart. A perfect paradise their life had been 
until about three months before the baby was 
born. A gulf then seemed to come between 
them. With time this gulf widened, until they 
seemed perfect strangers to each other. Then 
came the crisis. The baby died. 

They realized then that they could not live 
together. He called her into the library and 
put the matter before her. She agreed with him. 
They would part. 



44 The Other Girl 

"For the sake of our dear child's memory," 
said he, "I will not apply for a divorce for a 
year. Then, Mollie, you will be free." 

"Then, Willie," said she, calmly; "then." 

Neither could speak for a time. They sat 
silently looking about the room. How dreary it 
seemed ! Tears came to her eyes, but she choked 
them back. A lump came in his throat, but he 
quickly swallowed it. 

"I will go now, Mollie," he said. "Will you 
get my traveling bag for me? Excuse me, 
Mollie, I forgot. I will get it." 

"No, no, Willie," she cried, hastily arising 
from her chair and going upstairs for his suit 
case. 

She was back in a short time, and they slowly 
packed his clothes. He could not see her face. 
She kept it hidden from him. She picked up his 
handkerchiefs, and something blue dropped from 
them. She hastily picked it up and pressed it to 
her lips. Big tears trickled down her cheeks, 
and her whole body shook with emotion. 

"Don't, Mollie, don't," he said, softly. "Don't 
cry, you break my heart." 

"Oh, my baby, my baby," she cried. "It was 
the only one that loved me. Oh, God ! why did 
you take her ? My heart is broken." 

"Mollie," he pleaded, taking her in his arms. 



And Other Stories. 45 

"Mollie, please don't. It hurts me to see you 
cry that way. Would you break my heart?" 

He had taken her in his arms and was kissing 
her lips and hair. It was the first kiss he had 
given her for many months. After a time she 
became quiet and lay peacefully in his arms. 

''Darling," he said, "do you wish me to leave?" 

"Oh, Willie," she cried, her whole soul in her 
voice. 

He kissed her again. Peace settled over their 
faces. How long they sat entwined in each 
other's arms they never knew. When they arose 
at last they kissed the little Vv^oolen shoe. It had 
been the uniting power. 



46 The Other Girl 



THE SHORTEST DAY. 

May was to spend the summer with her cousin 
at Lake Harbor. She was glad to get away from 
the din of the crowded city. She wanted so 
much to sail upon the lake and see the green 
vegetation. There was only one person in Chi- 
cago she dreaded to leave, and that was Charlie 
Ray. 

Charlie worked with his father in the city. 
They were engaged in a large shipping business, 
and this was the busy season. Therefore Charlie 
would not get his vacation until August. 

May and Charlie had had a disagreement the 
night before her departure. He declared that 
he did not care if he ever saw her again ; and, of 
course, she did not care to see him. So they 
parted in anger. 

Cousin Louise met May at the station, and 
what a jolly time they had. The depot was only 
a short distance from Louise's home; and it was 
not long until they were sitting upon the long, 



And Other Stories. 4]^ 

cool veranda talking over old Smith College 
days. 

After tea they took a walk along the beach. 
There were so many strange and new sights to 
see that May thought she would never get used 
to them. The people of the city were forgotten. 
Louise did not give her time to think of Charlie, 
and even he was forgotten for the time being. 
But that could not last forever. 

The third day at her cousin's was a trying day 
for May. The novelty of things began to wear 
off, and she again was her old self. When she 
was left alone for a short time the remembrance 
of that foolish quarrel would come upon her with 
double force. He was coming up the next Sun- 
day to spend the day with Cousin Jack, and she 
would get to see him. 

He would be there one short day. May burst 
into tears and buried her face deep in her pillow. 
It was all her own fault. Now she must stand 
the consequences. Charlie had always been good 
and kind to her. She had brought about the 
quarrel just to see how it would be ; but it had 
ended very different from what she had thought 
it would. It was their first quarrel. 

It seemed as though Sunday would never 
come. The pleasure began to fade from the in- 
tervening days. She cared not for golf or tennis, 



48 The Other Girl 

and her cousin began to fear for her health. 
Often while May was talking to Louise she 
would relapse into dreams. 

At last the eventful Sunday came. The train 
pulled in, and within a short time Cousin Jack 
and Charlie were riding up the drive to the 
house. 

Charlie was dressed in cool flannels, and, to 
May's disdain, he seemed to be enjoying him- 
self. Was it because he was to spend the day 
near her? No, she could not believe it; because 
when he shook hands with her his salutation and 
the look from his eyes was as cold as steel. She 
could have wept, but she would not. She would 
not let him see that she cared for him. 

At dinner May surprised Louise by being witty 
and gay. The meal passed very pleasantly, and 
afterward the party strolled down toward the 
beach. Louise walked along with her brother, 
who told her college tales. May and Charlie 
took seats among the rocks. For a time they sat 
silent. 

"I will be glad," said May, breaking the 
silence, "when this day is over." 

"And so will I," retorted Charlie. 

"Really," said May, "it is the longest day 
that I have known. I have got so used to soli- 



And Other Stories, 49 

tude within the last week that I almost hate to 
see any one come." 

"And I," said Charlie, "am so interested in 
business that I have not time to think of my 
friends. I will be glad when to-morrow comes 
so that I can get down to business once more." 

Silence. 

"Don't you think of any of your friends?" 
asked May. "Isn't there one that you often 
think about? Surely you are not so occupied 
that you never think of — of — well, the one you 
like best." 

"I am afraid," said Charlie, "that I don't like 
any one best. I have grown selfish and think 
about no one but myself. The fact of the mat- 
ter is, I don't get out much any more." 

"And so," said May, "you have grown hard- 
hearted. Well, I don't suppose any one will 
care about it, and few more will grieve." 

Charlie hid his mouth in his big hand, while 
his eyes twinkled with glee. 

"I have," said May, "grown to be a dreamer. 
I have of late decided to enter fiction. I will put 
my whole self into it. From the world I will 
hide myself and make many books. Oh, Charlie 
— a — Mr. Ray, you know not how ambitious 
I have become." 

"Allow me," said Charlie, coldly, "to congrat- 



50 The Other Girl 

ulate you. I wish you success. I will take the 
literary reviews and watch your career. May I 
ask what your pseudonym will be?" 

This little speech cut May to the quick. 

'T will use my own name," said she. 

The two sat in silence for some time, but 
were aroused by Louise calling them. Each 
seemed in no hurry to leave the spot. As they 
were arising to go the church bells began to 
ring for league. 

"It is half after three," said Charlie. "The 
day is almost gone. Hark! List what the bells 
are saying. They seem to say : 'What fools you 
two children are.' Mav, do you think they mean 
us?" 

May looked up at him with tears in her eyes. 

"Charlie," she whispered, "they do mean us. 
What fools we have been." 

"Then, May," said he, "you do care for me, 
don't you, darling?" 

"Of course, I do," said she, hiding her face 
upon his breast. 

"What a day," he sighed, kissing her. "I 
must go away to-night." 

"It Is the shortest day we have ever had," 
said she. 

"There is a longer day coming," said he, smil- 
Ine. 



And Other Stories. 51 



THE LOVE OF WINNOA. 

''It does not make the least difference how 
I talk to you," said Harold, looking down into 
her dark, wondrous eyes. He was talking to 
Winnoa, daughter of the sixth chief of her race. 
'T love you, little girl. I tell you so, and yet you 
understand me not. Oh, the pity that so many 
jof you Indian nmidens have no schooling. Liv- 
ing in the midst of civilization, and yet you know 
not how to speak the English language. Oh, 
little one, little one, if you only knew my heart." 

"I no understand what pale-face say," Winnoa 
would say at every pause Harold would make. 
''I no understand. I no understand." 

Harold Wesley had just graduated from the 
University of Illinois and had come out to Arkan- 
sas for reptiles and such for specimens. He 
had only been there a week, yet he had fallen des- 
perately in love with Winnoa, daughter of the 
great chieftain. He had secured his specimens, 
but still he lingered on. He could not leave this 



52 The Other Girl 

pretty Indian n^.aiden. Could you blame him? 
He loved her ; loved her madly. 

She was about medium height, with large, 
dark, lustrous eyes. Her figure was slight, while 
her hair was dark as the raven's wing. She was 
indeed beautiful. She was lovable and worth 
loving. 

He stood close to her, looking down into her 
eyes. It was all he could do to restrain himself 
from hugging her to his bosom and pressing 
kisses to her lovely pretty rose-bud lips. What 
a beautiful mouth she had. As he gazed at her, it 
almost drove him mad ; she was so beautiful, and 
yet so ignorant. 

"Why don't you answer me, dear one?" he 
cried. ''Can't you understand I love you. Come 
with me back to dear Illinois. There we will 
have a nice tepee and live like civilized people. 
We will love each other, Winnoa, and be happy. 
We will come back and see your people often, 
so that you will never be lonesome or homesick. 
A chance you will not get to be lonesome for you 
will live off of my great love. It will be your 
strength and your salvation. Oh, Winnoa, how 
happy we shall be !" 

"I no understand; I no understand," cried 
Winnoa, excitedly. 

"Oh, curse the luck!" cried Harold. "God, 



And Other Stories. 53 

my God, why did you put this beautiful creature 
upon the earth to be a stumbling block for man's 
feet. I love her, but how must I make her un- 
derstand ? In what v/ay can I show her my burn- 
ing heart which is fired by this great love?" 

''I no understand," said Winnoa. 

He was looking heavenward. 

''The Great Spirit no understand," she went 
on. 

Harold snatched the Indian maiden to his 
bosom and showered her face, eyes and hair with 
kisses. He then looked about him, set the Indian 
maiden to the ground and fled. 

Winnoa stood looking after Harold as he sped 
down the pass. He looked neither to the right 
nor the left, but sped along as though he were 
mad. 

'Tale-face kiss Winnoa, pale-face mad. He 
be very angry at Winnoa. Pale-face be surprised 
some day." 

She smiled. 'Twas a strange smile. Then she 
relapsed into dreams. 

Three days had passed. Harold had not seen 
the beautiful Winnoa since the day he had so 
desperately made love to her. He was almost 
wild. He must see her, for upon her rested his 
future happiness. 

He called at her father's tepee three times 



54 The Other Girl 

during the morning but she was not there. She 
was out upon the prairie, they said, and had not 
returned. He became impatient. He could not 
wait for her. He would go to White Feather 
and borrow a pony. He would soon find her 
upon the prairie. 

In ten minutes, Harold was galloping across 
the country. One hand was placed to his brow 
while he scanned the plains. The other hand 
held the reins of the wild little beast he was 
riding. 

For two hours he rode over the burning plains 
looking for Winnoa. He looked for her in her 
favorite haunts but she could not be found. 

The sun grew scorching hot, the plain threw 
up a sickly heat. Harold dismounted and tied 
his horse to a sage bush. He then threw himself 
in the cool, delicious shade of a large boulder 
and was soon fast asleep. 

A blue haze seemed to arise from the prairie 
toward the west. Harold's pony began to jump 
and plunge and soon broke his fastenings and 
galloped wild and free across the prairie. 

From the south, a cloud of dust seemed to 
arise from the plain. As it drew nearer, a horse 
and rider could be distinguished. It was Win- 
noa. She was riding at break-neck speed toward 
the boulder. From afar, with her sharp, pierc- 



And Other Stories. 55 

ing Indian eyes, she had seen her lover lay him- 
self down. 

The blue haze grew closer and closer. Now 
you could tell what it was. It was not the heat 
arising from the plain, but a prairie fire, which 
was bearing down upon them with the rapidity 
of an express train. 

Winnoa swept down upon her lover, caught 
him by the hair and raised him to his feet. 

"The prairie is on fire," she cried, pointing 
toward the west. "Come, jump upon my horse 
behind me and we will be off." 

Harold stared at her. Was this Winnoa? 
Surely not, for this girl was speaking English. 

"There is no time to waste," she cried. "The 
fire is close upon us now." 

Harold looked for his pony. It was gone. He 
sprung upon her pony behind her and they were 
off. 

"To the river," cried Harold. "Go north. If 
we reach the river we will be safe for the fire 
cannot jump that." 

The little bronco fairly leaped along under 
its double burden. But this could not last for- 
ever. The strain was too much for so little a 
horse. 

The fire was now within fifteen hundred yards 
of them. The little horse was slowly but surely 



56 The Other Girl 

losing his speed. Winnoa loosened her feet 
from the stirrups. 

"He cannot carry us both," she cried without 
a tremor. "I will jump off. I am sure that then 
you can reach the river." 

"No, you will not," said Harold, placing his 
arm about her waist. "I have found that you 
are not ignorant, Winnoa, your love is greater 
than any white woman's. You have just now 
proved it; and if we must die, we will die to- 
gether." 

She smiled, squinted her eyes and looked con- 
tent. 

They reached the river by a hair's breadth and 
were safe from the devouring flames. How cool 
and delicious the water was! They stood up to 
their waist in it. Both were silent. 

"And you knew all the time what I was say- 
ing to you," said Harold. "Why did you not 
kill me?" 

"Because," said Winnoa, dipping her fingers in 
the water, "I thought you knew it. I went to 
school in the east. I teach school out here in the 
winter. As to killing you, I — I " 

"Winnoa," said Harold, "you're going to mar- 
ry me." 

"Well — a — yes, dear pale-face," said Winnoa. 



And Other Stories. 57 



JIM. 

Uncle Jamie was at his usual haunt, the cor- 
ner grocery store. About him sat a number of 
the boys of the town begging him for a story. 
Uncle Jamie had a wide reputation as a man of 
great experience, and one who had seen a good 
part of the world. He knocked the ashes from 
his pipe and looked about at the little group 
which had gathered. After a moment of medi- 
tation he settled back on the box upon which 
he was reclining, while the group of expectant 
listeners sat in silence waiting for him to begin. 

''Ah," exclaimed Uncle Jamie, "and true it is. 
Never once have I told you of my old pard, 
Jim. Jim, he war a good feller — as good a fel- 
ler as ever walked God's green arth. How 
well I remember Jim ! No one ever see Jim 
but what he war smilin'. Yes, good natur'd 
war Jim ; an' he war al'ays happiest when he 
war doin' somethin' fer some one. 

"It war in '62 when Jim an' I fust become 
acquainted. Durin' the war nither one o' us 



58 The Other Girl 

would go any place without t'other. Ever'one 
knew Jim an' I t' be fas' friends. I was as much 
'tached t' Jim as I could ha' been t' a brother, 
if I ha' been for'nate enough t' of had one. But 
that good fortun' ne'er fell t' my lot; an' I hon- 
estly believe the Lord sent me Jim t' make up 
for 't. 

"Jim war an awful sight t' see In battle. Many 
a time ha' I watched him an' quaked with fear 
at that smile 'pon his face. His aim war true. 
Jim war shootin' to kill. He war earnest in 
everythin' that he did, an' once he started t' do 
a thin', no power on arth could stop him. 

"It war in '63 at the Battle of Gettysburg that 
Jim saved my scalp. We were 'long with a party 
that war sent t' inclose a little grove on the hill- 
side. I war feelin' righter'n a fox that day, an' 
defied the whole Confederate shebang. Jim an' 
I war sent out as scouts, an' I frisked erbout in 
front o' Jim as spry as er young kitten. Jim 
kept cautionin' me ter keep down out er sight ; 
but I like er young fool did not see it that way. 
I warn't afraid o' ther sneekin' rebels, an' I 
wanted them t' know it. But thar, my boys, 
war where I war not wise. 

"We came t' ther edge o' ther woods an' looked 
down into ther valley. The 'hole thin' was chuck 
full o' ther pesty rebs ! I cursed them, I gnashed 



And Other Stones. 59 

my teeth at them. Oh, how I hated them ! But 
Jim — he war quiet as a cucumber. He lay thar 
watchin' their ever' movement. 

'' '^diYmQ,' said he t' me, 'yer ha' better lay 
low er some o' them Johnny rebs will take er 
shot at yer.' But I scoffed at the ide'; but I 
ha' no more 'an got the words out o 'my mouth 
when — zip! a bullet struck me in the left arm 
an' I fell t' ther ground. 'Look you,' said Jim, 
pointin' t'ward a feller erbout two hundred yards 
distance settin' in a tree. 'That feller did it,' 
said Jim, 'an' now I am goin' t' make him leave 
his position.'' I allers knew that Jim's word 
war as good as himself, an' I knew that feller 
would be a deader afore long. 

"Ther feller in ther tree war loadin' his gun 
t' take er shot at Jim, but Jim war t' quick fer 
him. Long an' careful aim did Jim take, an' 
when ther smoke cleared away we saw ther reb 
throw up his gun into ther air an' fall head 
fust t' ther ground. From the loss o' blood T 
fainted. 

''When I awoke I war in ther hospital. I 
couldn't move at first, fer I war so weak. Ther 
sun kind o' hurt my eyes. When I could see 
good, I noticed ther nurse an' some men put- 
tin' a man on the slab. He war dead, poor fel- 
ler. Ther nurse came over t' me an' I asked 



6o The Other Girl 

who it was. ^That man/ said she, 'is Jim Dan- 
vers.' 'Jim Danvers !' I cried. 'Jim, my old pard V 
'Yes/ said she, 'the man who brought you here. 
He was mortally wounded when he laid you on 
that cot.' Jim, my old pard, Jim, dead. I fell 
back upon the pillow in a faint. 

"After I got better the fellers told me how Jim 
happened t' get shot, carrying me 'cross an 
openin' t'ward ther rear. He war a brave Jim. 
I shall ne'er forget him. He gave his life fer 
me." 



And Other Stories. 6i 



THE FOOLERY OF PING PONG. 

"But can I not see you just once more?" asked 
Harold. "I don't think your papa will object 
to let me come just this once." 

"No," said Fay, "you cannot come any more. 
In papa's sight you are very detestable. Can 
you not act like a gentleman?" 

"Darling," said Harold, "I have not done any- 
thing wrong. I cannot see why you are so hard 
on me." 

"Harold, you know how you are. That you 
are sickly you cannot deny. Just think, you 
kissed me four times yesterday afternoon ; and 
what is worse, papa saw you do it. Can you 
not control your feelings?" 

"But, Fay," protested Harold, "you were the 
cause of me doing it. Those pretty red lips of 
yours were melting with sweet nectar, and that 
pretty little pout was too bewitching." 

"Well," said Fay, picking at her handkerchief, 
"you — you made a fool of yourself. Papa will 
never forgive you." 



62 The Other Girl 

"Fay," said Harold, growing excited, "tell 
your papa I promise never to kiss you again if 
he will only let me come. Will you do that for 
me? 

"No — I — will — not," said Fay, stamping her 
little feet. 

"Darling," said he, "you have not deserted me, 
too, have you?" 

"Oh, you big old dunce," cried Fay, bursting 
into tears. "I hate you. I don't want you to 
come and see me. The idea of you, a great 
big man, twenty years old, wanting me to tell 
my papa that you will not kiss me any more 
if he will only let you come. Boo — you terrible 
thing. I hate you.'' 

Fay turned her back upon Harold, rested her 
head upon the cool arm of the rustic bench and 
wept. She had always liked Harold, but — he was 
such a fool. 

Harold in turn could only look at Fay. She 
was such a queer girl. He could never under- 
stand her. 

"Fay," he said, leaning toward her, "what 
can I do? Let us both think how we can con- 
quer and overthrow this trouble. Shall I go 
and tell your papa that I will try to act the gen- 
tleman ?" 

No answer. 



And Other Stories. 63 

"Oh, curse the luck !" he exclaimed, arising 
from the bench. "I am going. I will never stay 
in Newport another day. I am doing more 
harm than good here. I will go to-night. I 
care not to stay longer. Fay, will you tell me 
good-by ?" 

Fay did not raise her head. She wept harder 
than ever. 

"Good-by, love," said Harold. "Good-by." 

"Harold," cried Fay, bounding toward him as 
he was retreating, "don't go. Don't leave me 
here all alone. I am afraid to go along the 
beach alone." 

"Forgive me, love," said Harold. "I did not 
mean to leave you here. I was not thinking. It is 
growing late. We had better start for home." 
Each looked as though they had lost their last 
friend. 

"Harold," said Fay, "I forgot something. 
Papa said when you came again he would watch 
us. I had forgotten all about that. Will you 
come over this evening and have a game of ping 
pong with me?" 

"But your papa?" said Harold. 

'*Oh, we don't mind him if he does watch us. 
Have you forgotten that often the ball is lost 
and we have to hunt for it? Very often it goes 
under the table. I yesterday fixed a silk cloth 



64 The Other Girl 

around the table. Papa will be deeply ingrossed 
in his paper." 

"I will be there," said Harold, his face bright- 
ening. 

At eight o'clock that evening the game was in 
•full progress. Both wore flushed and excited 
faces. Truly they were happy to be near one 
another; but — curses of all curses — within the 
library with the door wide open sat papa read- 
ing the evening paper. 

During the evening the ball was lost a num- 
ber of times ; and, strange to say, every time it 
was lost under the ping-pong table. They would 
both dive under after it at once and were very 
slow in emerging. 

Papa, they thought, had not noticed this ; but 
he was indeed a close observer of events. He 
would hide his face behind his paper and chuckle 
to himself. 

It was about nine o'clock when Harold and 
Fay in the last game dived under the table 
after the ball. They had become bold now and 
were growing reckless. There was a smothered 
cooing, then the crisis came. 

Smack ! Smack ! 

The room resounded with the two caresses. 

"O, there you did it, Harold," cried Fay. 



And Other Stories. 65 

"Now you have spoiled the whole thing," cried 
Harold. 

"Ping pong?" cried papa, running into the 
room. 

Harold and Fay crawled sheepishly from un- 
der the table. They stood side by side studying 
the pattern of the carpet. After a time Fay took 
courage in the silence and looked up at her papa 
whose face was purple with suppressed mirth. 

"Papa," cried Fay, throwing her arms around 
her father's neck, "don't you dare scold us. We 
are engaged, aren't we, Harold?" 

"A — a — yes, dad," said Harold, moving closer 
to papa. 



66 The Other Girl 



SPRING. 

The rain falleth on the drear earth, 
Pray tell me what it means to do, 

The drops splash on the panes with mirth, 
Soon things will look the same as new. 



And Other Stories. 67 



WITH THE SPRING. 

The gentle spring has come again, 
And with it comes sorrow and pain, 

The lover pleads and pleads in vain 
To her whose will is hard to bend. 



68 The Other Girl 



THE HAY-MAKER. 

The farmer in the hay-field works, 

The sun beats down with scorching rays, 

Not once his duty does he shirk 
As he works on day after day. 

He laughs and sings from morn 'till night, 
When twilight o'er the meadows steals, 

Home goes he to his happy wife 
Who makes him like a king to feel. 



And Other Stories. 69 



THE YACHTSMAN, 

The yachtsman to his yacht he hies, 
And over the blue sea he flies, 
He tacks and veers from side to side, 
And with the sailor doth he bide. 

He wears a suit of navy blue. 
And great wonders plans he to do. 
His yacht is one of the best make, 
On it his money doth he stake. 



70 The Other Girl 



THE ANGLER. 

Doth know what is the one great theme, 
The ice with skates no longer rings. 

How beautiful the woodland scene ! 
The gentle spring has come again. 

The angler starts o'er field and stream, 
His angling kit he holds in hand; 

And with a smile this man he seems 
The happiest beast in the land. 



And Other Stories. 71 



CAROLINE. 

I love to take thy hand In mine, 

Sweet CaroHne, 
And tell thee that I love but thee, 

O, how sublime! 
Thy love o'er me a spell doth cast, 
My own dear love, I cry at last, 

Thou art all mine — 

My lovely Caroline. 



72 The Other Girl 



THE SUMMER GIRL. 

The summer girl Is on your trail, 

Beware ! Beware ! 
Your love she'll win, she will not fall, 

So there! So there! 
Her lips are sweet as roses red, 
With glory crowned Is her fair head, 
With this sweet girl you'll surely wed — 
Now I will stop, for there's "nuff said." 



And Other Stories. 73 



UNDECIDED. 

Some time I think she loves me, 
And other times I doubt, 

My love for her will constant be. 
No power this love can rout. 

She is the jewel of my life. 
Far sweeter than the rose. 

My love at last o'er doubt doth rife, 
To her I will propose. 



74 The Other Girl 



THE MAN AND THE PHOTO. 

A man sat silent by a stream, 

He frowned and smiled alternately, 

His thoughts were in some far off dream, 
His heart he felt suspiciously. 

He did not want to foolish be. 
His actions were always just so, 

This was his first real love, you see ; 
On his warm heart was her photo. 



And Other Stories. 75 



THE WOOER OF THE LAKES. 

He makes the rounds of all the towns, 
That border on our western lakes, 

This man he is no dunce or clown. 
His happiness has he at stake. 

He visits none but rich resorts, 
The maidens fair he tries to woo. 

They call him a real dead game sport. 
His blood is said to be of blue. 

Fine jewels doth this masher flash; 

If looks were all he would be it; 
When they find that he has no cash. 

Our wooer of the lakes is hit. 



76 The Other Girl 



GROWN UP. 

He clapped his hands and jumped with glee, 
For happy was young Johnny Lee, 
He kissed his ma and kissed his pa; 
For they had given him a saw. 

He sawed and sawed and sawed all day, 
And when night came he asked no pay. 
Pa winked and smiled his best at ma, 
Would John, when grown up, like his saw? 

The years have flown since that bright day, 
And John grown big asks for some pay; 
And ma just grins and looks at pa, 
'Cause John grown big don't like the saw. 



And Other Stories. 77 



WHEN A BOY'S BAD. 

I do so wish my ma was near, 
I's bad, that's why she sent me here, 
I wish now that I had been good, 
'Cause it's as dark as granma's hood. 

What's that thing standin' by the door? 
Oh, my ! it's crawHn' on the floor. 
I'm scared, I don't know what to do; 
It's what mammie calls a hoodoo. 

Oh mamma, mamma, come to me! 
I'se sick, dear mamma, can't you see? 
Here comes my mamma with the light, 
W'y, the white thing's my big white kite. 



C A 



78 The Other Girl 



DE DARKY AN' DE CHICKEN. 

De co'n am planted in de fiel', 

De darky am happy an' gay, 
'Tis time de darky 'gins t' steal, 

Wat ca's he w'at de whi' folks say ? 

De neighbo's done raise nice big chicks, 
Dey's fresh dis spring f'om out de nes', 

De darky smacks an' licks his lips.; 
An' when night comes he cannot res'. 

Wen twelve 'clock an' all is still. 

Vague dreams de darky's brain dey rack, 

Excitement make him body thrill ; 
He get up an' get de ole sack. 

Ober the hill the darky goes, 
All de time his lips be lickin', 

De rooster he begins t' crow ; 
De darky hab got his chicken. 



And Other Stones. 79 



DE MAN DAT TOILS. 

De spring hab come at last, ha, ha ! 

De darky am feelin' quite gay, 
He'll work an' work in de ploughed fiel', 

An' glad he'll be t' draw him pay. 

De cash he'll take t' him dea' wife, 
She'll kiss him wif a glad, yah, yah ! 

''Ole man, you's had a bitter strife; 
But you's a good hubby, yes sah." 

De wife she spends the coins for silks. 
Her hubbie am content wif rags ; 

But when her clothes him sees him wilts, 
Dat's wa't drains him ole money bags. 



The Other Girl. 



OUR PRAYER. 

Our God redeem us in the end, 
For we are only mortals weak, 

If we on earth Thy name offen.d, 
To Thee in prayer we humbly seek. 

At night we kneel when all is still. 
We beg of Thee our sins forgive. 

We try so hard to do Thy will; 
For in Thy faith we wish to live. 



THE END. 



NOV 9 1908 





^SS!:SS!!&»!S!;SSS^^ 



